


The Dame's Tale

by dragonswithjetpacks



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Trevelyan Origin, Warrior Trevelyan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonswithjetpacks/pseuds/dragonswithjetpacks
Summary: Claira Trevelyan was a troubled child. The constant mental abuse she waded through allowed a strong rebellious trait to flow through her veins. Her father's blood, surely. This is the story of how Claira turned from a troubled lady to a fearsome chevalier.





	1. Chapter One: Hold Your Shield

Her knuckles were bruised again. Mother was not going to be pleased. Then again, Claira could not remember a time when she was ever really pleased. It was even confusing, at times. Over and over she heard words of encouragement, telling her she must be the best. That she must always strive for greatness. But when she rose victorious, she was always scolded. Her fists tightened at her sides, her chin pointed in as tears streamed down her face. It left a clean trail on her dirt ridden cheeks. It would just be another thing for Mother to yell at her for. She could already hear her through the crack in the door. It was rude to be eavesdropping. But it was hard not to listen.   
"How could you let her do this?" 

"Helena, she was only playing. There is no need-" 

"Playing?" she gasped. "My poor Marcus's nose is bloodied. It is broken, surely. He will have to grow with a crooked nose. Andraste preserve me, what did I do to deserve this?" 

"You're overreacting." 

"How dare you," she crossed her arms. "You should be just as ashamed. They are your children, too." 

"That's just it," his voice was firm. "They are children. And yes, they are mine!" 

"I know you care about the children. I know you love them. But we have to think about instilling these promising traits within in them at an early age. I don't want to believe my daughter is brute. And so, it will not be." 

"Helena..." 

"Bring her in." 

The light brightened across her face as her father widened the door with a sigh. She dare not waste any time and did not wait for her father to call her name. It would only make things worse. It wasn't shame that made her look down at the floor. It was pride. It was her own stubborn nature. Mother would preferred to make eye contact. It was her way of establishing dominance. There was a look in her eyes that was cold that made others bend to her will. Claira hated it. She looked at her hideous golden shoes, instead. 

"Look at me," she demanded, recognizing Claira's strong will to turn away.   
Claira looked over to the fireplace, bringing light to a bruise on the side of her cheek. 

"Look. At. Me," her mother repeated through gritted teeth. 

She regretted that she did not the moment a firm hand clutched the tip of her chin. Her fingernail pressed against Claira's face, sure to leave mark once it was removed. She flinched under her mother's grasp, but was too cowardly to pull away. Her eyes shut tight, and she still refused to look her mother in the eye.

"What have you done, hmm?" the woman's voice was sharp and her hand shook the child's head. "You think this is fun? What sort of game are you playing?" 

"No, Mother," the words were quiet and her eyelids flickered. 

"No, what?" 

"This is not fun."

"Then why are you here? Again?" She let go, casting Claira's face aside. 

Claira, only being six years old, stumbled at the force she could not counter. Her mother seemed to glide over to the mantle of the fireplace where she kept her prized busts. They were all of her greatest ancestors. None of them were from the Trevelyan blood line. Her mother folded her hands elegantly at her waste, making eye contact with one of her distant relatives as if to seek out guidance. Claira could see a sudden change of emotion in her mother's face. This change made her feel oddly guilty.

"I'm so sorry, Mother," Claira mumbled.

"Are you, Claira?" Her voice softened. "Time after time, you come to me battered and bruised. Only this time, you have taken down your brother, as well." 

"He hit me first," Claira sniffled. 

"Does it matter?" She whipped her shoulders around, the movement of her dress causing the flames to shift. "Do little girls strike at all?" 

"No, Mother." 

"Do proper ladies raise their hand?" 

"No," the tears began to swell. 

"Are you a proper lady, Claira?" 

"Yes, Mother. I am," her voice cracked. 

"I don't think you are." 

"I promise I'll do better." 

"You promised last time." 

"Please, Mother, I promise. For real this time." 

The tears were now little streams dripping down the side of her face. Her voice cracked as she wailed a plea for her mother's forgiveness. Her mother was silent, her eyes scanning over her youngest child as she stood sobbing in front of her. This little girl- her knuckles and cheek bruised, her lip bloodied, her dress torn with patches of dirt, her dark hair a tangled mess, and her face wet with tears- this was not the daughter she had prayed for. 

"Go with your father. He'll take you to your room." 

Claira struggled to catch her breath between cries and a warm hand on her shoulder didn't help. She let out the tears she had been holding back and she fought to keep her eyes open. Although blurry, she could see the back of her mother's dress swaying as she strode to the other side of the room to the balcony door. She did not see the rest as her father had reached down to clutch her hand. 

"Come, now," he said softly. "Best do as you're told." 

The walk was slow and deathly quiet to the sleeping quarters of the Trevelyan estate. But this was not the first time Lord Ramsey had taken his daughter down this path. He had lost count how many times he had to listen to her weeping below him. Sometimes, he tried to ignore it and keep the journey as silent as possible. Though in time he began to see his daughter was more like him than his wife ever realized. And the older Claira became, the tighter his grip became on her hand down that hallway.

"Claira, you know better than to strike your own brother," he said looking forward. 

"But he-" she wailed. 

"Hush, now," he came to a sudden stop, falling to his knees to quiet her sobbing. "What have I told you? You must be calm to keep in control." 

"Yes, Father," she sniffled. "You're right. I forgot." 

"When I'm facing your mother, I forget, sometimes, too," he smiled and his heart warmed when he saw the toothless grin on his daughter's face. 

"Now... go on. Try again." 

Claira took a deep breath. "He hit me first." 

"I know, darling," he rose back up to his feet and they continued to make their way down the dimly lit corridor. 

"Everything was fine. We were playing," Claira's voice still shook, but she remained in control the best she could. 

"Then why did he hit you?" 

"Because I'm better than him." 

"Claira," Ramsey attempted to hide his smile. "That is not a good reason." 

"It was good enough for Marcus," she raised her brow. "I just wanted to play swords. Jordan and Sam were fine with it. But when I chopped off Marcus's arm, he pushed me into the dirt." 

"Where was your shield?" 

"What?" 

"You were playing swords and you had no shield?" 

"Well... I..." 

"Claira, I need you to listen to me. For just a moment. Listen and don't forget. Your going to have enemies who are bigger than you. Who are stronger. But my dear, never forget that your shield will protect you. If you hold your ground, with a firm position, nothing can knock you down." 

"But Mother said-" 

"I know what your mother said. Just stay strong, alright, Claira? Be patient and trust me." 

"Yes, Father. Of course I will." 

"Good girl. Now, I'll let you make the rest of the journey alone under one condition." 

Claira's face lit up with a smile, her tears instantly dried and she waited eagerly for her father's request. 

"Go apologize to your brother." 

"Father," she whined. 

"Go. Now." 

"Fine," she giggled playful as she tore away from his hand and sprinted down the hallway. 


	2. Chapter Two: Build Your Mass

They were warm. They were still gooey. They were fresh. And they smelled amazing. Claira could hear the cream filling still sizzling on the bottom of the pan as her greedy, and hungry, fingers reached to snag a few pastries before the cook could notice. She was pretty sure he was deaf in one ear, anyway. Just as she went to snatch it from the pan, her fingertips felt their warmth and she knew better than to risk a burn. A loud clatter came from the other side of the kitchen and she jumped at the sudden noise.

"Oh, Claira," the cook smiled. "What brings you here?" 

"Just looking for a quick snack, Ken." 

"Oh well I do have some apples," he shuffled over to a basket at the far corner of the room. 

Claira wasted no more time. She grabbed two cakes and shoved them in her pockets, but not before she burnt the palm of her hands. She shook them in hopes the breeze would cool down the stinging sensation. Ken continued to ramble about nuts and berries and other assortments of snacks. She saw another opportunity and grabbed two more cakes. Ken turned just as she shoved the fourth one into her pocket. 

"Claira, those are for-" 

"These will do! Thanks, Ken!" 

And without another second to waste, she turned and darted for the door in a full sprint. Ken was shouting, she was certain, but it did not matter. Her feet kept pressing forward down the blue carpet until she reached the turn for the sleeping quarters. She stopped to take a breath, looking forward to the door that led to her parents' room. Her mother had been in there all day writing letters. And she was more than likely in there as Claira panted. To the left was her own room that she kept all to herself. To the right was the room her three brothers' shared. It was still roomy and they honestly had nothing to complain about. But it still seemed unfair that Claira had her room to herself. Not that it mattered. She still walked into the boys' room as if it were her own.   
"Claira, honestly, you should knock," Samuel groaned as she passed the threshold. 

"You're only saying that because she startled you," Jordan laughed.

"She did not!" He proclaimed. 

"I agree with Sam," Marcus said beneath a cold pack. "It's not like we want you in here." 

"Still sore after this morning?" Claira smirked, reaching into her pocket and tossing him a pastry. 

Marcus caught it with his free hand, attempting to hide the grin forming across his face. "Not as sour as you'll be tomorrow," he replied, his voice sounding nasily as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"Got one for me, Midge?" Jordan held up a hand to be greeted pleasantly by the warmth of another pastry.

"Of course," Claira nodded after throwing it. "And one for you as well, dear Sammie Boy."

Sam did not look up from his book but nevertheless, caught his pastry without daring to look up. Ramsey's boys were the most promising of the youngest in the Trevelyan family. Jordan was the oldest, having four years on Claira, and had already been chosen for the Templar Order. It was his last summer at the manor and in the fall, he would leave to begin training. Samuel was the second oldest, two years to Claira, and by far, the wisest. He was not the strongest of the group when it came to fighting, but he was the most cunning. He preferred the way of the bow and proved to be excellent, rivaling that of a young Beatrice Cousland who was a master marksman by the age of fifteen. His appearance was also remarkably resembling to Claira's and they were often mistaken for twins. Marcus was the youngest. He was only a year older than Claira and their rivalry was stronger than their bond as siblings. In the beginning, their mother was against their competitiveness. However, their father had somehow convinced her that it was good for Marcus to have a challenger close to his age. Despite the fact that it was Claira. The only stipulation was that Claira would never get to fight. Only to train. 

"Wow," Jordan opened his mouth as steam came flowing out. "These are really fresh." 

"Fresh from the oven," Claira grinned before she blew on the opening of her pastry. 

"Great," Marcus grumbled. "Now my mouth is burnt and I can't taste the goodness."

"Patience is a virtue," Sam sung as he read his book, his pastry resting on his lap untouched.

"So," Claira blurted, situating herself on top of the desk next to where Jordan sat. "How did I do?"

"Really Claira?" Marcus rolled his eyes. "I don't think this is necessary."

Claira finished chewing the bite she took after speaking, blinking plainly at her ignorant brother. When she finished, she took a deep breath. "How may years has it been, Marcus? I bloodied your nose... what? Four years ago? And every year I manage to bloody it again... and again... and again..."

"Alright, Claira. We get the point," Jordan stood up from his chair after seeing Marcus was getting being agitated. 

"Clearly," he turned his back to Marcus and faced his sister, "you are superior with a sword-"

"That's not-" Marcus attempted to interrupt.

"Clearly," he said over his youngest brother. "You have remarkable sword work. With a shield, you are nearly unstoppable. And after watching you skirmish with Sam... you have also shown to be quick. Now, you just have to keep that shield up," he rose his hands to imitate un upward motion. "Which brings me to my final point. Claira..." He took her hand into his own. "Claira, you need strength. You're still young. And you are..."

"Don’t you dare say it, Jordan," she snatched her hand back.

"You need to hear it, Midge," he shook his head. "Claria, you are a woman. Or, at least, soon to be. Your strength is lacking. If you intend to be a fighter, especially against other men and especially with a shield, you need to build muscle. You need to build mass."

"I can be faster," she declared abruptly. "I can train with Sam and I can-"

"Claira," Jordan sighed, running his hands through his hair. "It is possible. But only with a sword, alone. There are chevaliers who are quick enough to avoid attacks, only using their sword. And those who use a sword and shield... are all men. It is unheard of. You have to be stronger."

Claira laughed, knowing that this was impossible. "I've been helping Ken carry in sacks of flour. And baskets of apples and potatoes. I don't know what more I can do without hearing Mother scold me about my figure."

Jordan gave her a sad smile. "My fate is not in my hands. Nor Father's."

"I know," Claira bit her lip. "I know that. I just... need to be patient."

"It is a virtue," Sam repeated, his mouth full of sweetness.

"I'll be a great warrior one day," Claira smiled. "I will. And Mother won't be able to stop me." 


End file.
